Page 10 of Unbound

Biting down on my lip, I nod. “I know.”

It’s warm inside the old wood-paneled office of the College of Business. My department head sighs, like he’s as irritated with me as I am with myself. I put this off for long enough, making spring semester almost ridiculously difficult.

“Paloma, I can’t just toss you anywhere. Most of the class has already chosen—even some juniors. Now, I’ll give you priority over their choices, but it has to be done now. Today.”

“Can’t you just count my freshman year experience? With the hockey team?”

“You were an equipment manager.”

I raise an eyebrow and shrug my shoulders. “Fine—then let me do an off-campus internship to replace it.”

“We tried that, remember?” he says, hands threading through his hair. “They rejected your application.”

After it became clear at the dinner that I wouldn’t be putting out in the office, which was the only reason they interviewed me at all.

“Football is taken—they barely took two people considering it’s off season. Figure skating has an opening, and hockey has a junior in there so if you want that—”

“No hockey.”

He shakes his head again. “You don’t have too much of a choice. I was hoping you’d just say yes to figure skating. You’ll have to split shifts. There’s a new coach, so they’ll only let you practice with one of them. Besides, your sport of choice when you applied was left blank, but I’m gonna take a wild guess based on your work experience and say you might love hockey.”

I don’t say a word about his guess, only asking, “What about an event team?”

“You specifically entered the coaching track.”

“Fine. Swimming?”

A deep sigh comes from his chest. “Off season.”

“They go ’til April—”

“No. They already filled the one spot they allow for. Try again.”

My stomach churns.

“Paloma, I’ve seen your résumé. You’ve excelled in all your classes. You’ve worked summers and part time for local hockey clubs—even the Providence Bruins last year. And they all have beautiful things to say about you. Why are you so adamant about not working with the hockey team here?”

His voice is still soft, kind, as he dips it even lower to ask, “Did something happen? Are you—”

“I’m fine,” I quickly cut him off. “Nothing happened.”

He breathes out quickly, a rush telling me he’s relieved. But his eyes scan me again, like they’re looking for deception.

“Okay. Fine,” I agree, head ducked.

“Wonderful. You’ll slot on and off as the ‘ice sports’ mentee. So, with—” He pauses to glance down at a few papers in front of him, searching. “Coach Moreau for pairs skating on Mondays. And Coach Harris for hockey on Thursdays. He can move you to shadow an assistant coach if he wants, but you’ll report to him as your supervisor.”

I nod, fists tightening on my thighs. “Anything else?”

He sighs deeply. “No. That’s all.”

I excuse myself with a sarcastic salute to cover the nausea, opening the door and striding out into the ornate dark hallway, only to slam right into a girl trying to sprint through me.

She stumbles but stays upright. She’s short, her pale face red enough to match her auburn hair. Her attire almost looks like a movie-worthy prep academy uniform—nylon tights, a pleated navy skirt and a frilly blouse, complete with a thick headband that she fixes back into place.

“You, okay?” I ask, because she seems almost out of it.

“Mmhmm,” she says, while staring unabashedly at my cleavage. I almost laugh, but manage to hold it in. It doesn’t seem like she’s trying to blatantly check me out, but her gaze is focused.